Leaving Without You
by StoryGardener
Summary: Kirk's away team beams down to a planet to recover the crew of a destroyed starship and finds a desolate plague city, a war of crew against crew and the ultimate test of friendship. Kirk-whumpage and Chapel to the rescue, what's not to love! No slash.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: I do not own Star Trek.**

_**Leaving Without You**_** is set shortly after the events of "The Tholian Web," to which there is a reference. A marooned crew, a plague planet, the ultimate test of friendship and character, Kirk-whumpage and Christine to the rescue. What's not to love! **

**This is a rewrite and reshuffle of chapters of **_**Leaving Without You,**_** which was first published in January 2011. For those who have already read it, most of the changes were made in the last chapters.**

**Chapter 1**

Spock turned from his scanner at the science station to his Captain. Kirk sat in his customary posture of alertness, on the edge of his chair, elbow on the armrest, thumb at his cheek and index finger on his lips. He was squinting in concentration, all his attention on the main view screen.

"The debris indicates that it was, once, a starship, Captain."

"The _Troika_," said Kirk, not taking his eyes off the grey planet and the narrow belt of wreckage orbiting it. "Gav Siderov's ship, missing in action for one year now."

Spock observed the Captain's fatigue, perceptible - if only to those who knew him well - right under the surface of his natural vitality and the adrenaline of the moment. They had been en route to the nearest starbase for repairs and a well-deserved rest. Their stand-off with the Tholians and subsequent run-in with a barrage of severe ion storms had put them "through the wringer," as Doctor McCoy quite adequately put it (for once). The Captain had of course taken the brunt of both the danger and the worry.

It had been known that the _Troika_ had disappeared in this quadrant of space, but a survey six months ago had come up with nothing. That they had picked up on the debris had been sheer coincidence. Spock could tell, from their faces, that it was not entirely welcome to some of the present bridge personnel. Not so to the most sleep-deprived of all of them, of course. The Captain had come instantly alive to the situation.

"Eleven months and three days, Captain. To be exact."

This broke Kirk's reverie. He sat up straight and offered Spock a wry smile.

"Thank you for that, Mister Spock."

He leaped from his chair and practically bounded over to resume his preoccupation with the main screen from the vantage point of the science station. Spock considered again his Captain's need for the sensual - the satisfaction of moving his body, the hand gripping the backrest of Spock's chair and the attraction of the visual on the screen. Spock never ceased to be amazed at the fascination of humans for that screen, which surely presented an at best inadequate picture of reality. He turned back to his own scanner, which displayed an infinitely more complex and vibrant abstraction of that reality.

"Any indications of what happened? Signs of attack, malfunction?" Kirk asked.

"Attack is ruled out by the fact that there are no traces of ion disturbance. As for malfunction, it is hard to say. The evidence strongly suggests that the ship was operational for several months before its orbit decayed and surrendered it to the atmosphere. There it broke up and most of the fragments bounced back into space."

"Any signs of human remains?"

"None, Captain. If anyone had been on board when the ship was destroyed, we would have picked up the traces."

Spock could almost sense the flare of the Captain's excitement.

"So they abandoned ship!" Kirk concluded, a sudden urgent hope rebounding in his voice. "They must all still be down there. Scans of the planet, Mister Spock?"

"Proceeding, Captain. Class M, like Earth in many respects. Sensors pick up many life forms, but of the humanoid kind there are…" He hesitated and, raising an eyebrow, turned to face the Captain, "forty-three."

"Forty… three? The _Troika_ had a crew of five-hundred!"

"Five-hundred-and-twelve, Captain."

"Could anything have attacked them on the planet surface?"

"Scans indicate that all other life forms are small and benign. I read no harmful bacteria that would cause a massive die-off like that. Doctor McCoy is looking into it now. Also, Captain, all forty-three humanoids are _homo sapiens_."

"Didn't the _Troika _have Sarans on board? And… Vulcans?"

"Two Sarans, two Vulcans. They are not on the planet. Not alive, in any case," Spock informed him impassively. "The humans are congregated in a small city on the continent in the northern hemisphere. This city unquestionably predates the _Troika's _arrival."

"Ruins of an older civilization?"

"It is primitive, Captain, but how old is hard to tell."

"We'll have to go down there," Kirk concluded, as he always did, simply and with conviction.

"It would seem so," said the Vulcan with a hint of amusement. Exploring alien worlds was like walking from one room into the next for the Captain. But Kirk either failed to notice his witticism, or decided to pass it up.

"Let's find out what shape they're in," he was saying, already on his way to the turbolift, "and what decimated their crew before we bring them on board. Tell McCoy to report to the transporter room with environmental suits. Select four security personnel."

The turbolift doors opened in front of him, but he stopped short.

"Oh, and Mister Spock," he added, singling out his First Officer with a shrewd smile and a beckoning finger, "_you're_ coming too."

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They materialized in a part of the city which scans indicated was deserted. In the outskirts and at the top of a slight hill, their beam down point gave them a good overview of the city below. McCoy grumbled. The place had a medieval feel to it. The narrow streets and winding alleys were crowded by one or two-room houses of stone or wood. Most of the roofs had caved in, walls had crumbled, mosses and weeds had taken over on the edges. It had rained recently, and everything was wet and uninviting underneath a dreary, grey sky.

_Plague city_.

The Doctor shivered and pushed the thought to the back of his mind.

"This city would have housed several thousands," Spock observed over his whirring scanner. "There are no indications of war or a natural calamity. It is, simply, empty."

"Well, it spooks me!" McCoy blurted out.

He got a sympathetic smile from Kirk. The Captain turned – his tight-fitting environmental suit creaking around him - to monitor his men one by one. The place must also be giving him the creeps, and he was making sure they were all alert and objective.

"It's okay, Ensign Dow," Kirk reassured the youngest of their party, who was looking particularly pale behind the bleak reflections on the glass of his helmet. "There is no immediate danger."

The young man nodded gratefully.

"Doctor, aside from those spooks, any signs of harmful organisms? I've bad memories of these suits…"

McCoy quickly revisited his medical scanner.

"Like I concluded from the ship's scans, none, Captain," he was glad to report. Half of his own uneasiness stemmed from seeing the Captain in that suit again. "All clear."

With an audible sigh of relief Kirk unclasped his helmet and lifted it off. He set it down out of sight behind a crumbling wall and proceeded to peel off the rigid suit. They followed his example.

McCoy shivered with the humid chill in the air, like of pending snow. But instead of fresh the air tasted stale in his mouth. A stagnant fog was accumulating among the broken walls around them. He shivered again and stood still, listening.

"That bird," he said to no one in particular.

"By its song I surmise that is the largest bird on this planet, Doctor," said Spock. "Similar to the American Robin. It is also the largest animal, excepting the humans."

"Damn it, Spock," McCoy snapped, "I was referring to its _song_. Doesn't it sound _eerie_ to you?"

Spock minutely cocked his head.

"_Gentlemen_," Kirk cut in before they all fell to listening to that disturbing sound, "let's approach carefully. Who knows what state of mind Siderov's crew is in, after being in _this_ place for a year."

He started toward the center of the city.

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Bleak.

Kirk was acutely aware of their bizarre situation. The sinister state of the city set his teeth on edge, but at the same time its low-grade misery also threatened to lull him into lethargy. Or perhaps that was his fatigue, the stress and lack of sleep that had been catching up with him until they had come across the wreckage_._ It was still there, of course, in his bones. He fervently hoped they would solve the mystery of the _Troika _soon. There were limits to even his endurance.

Still, exhausted or not, he was taking no chances. He had opted out of approaching the center by the broader road and was following instead a narrow street that ran parallel to it. The dirt had given way to a rocky pavement. At intervals the crumbling houses stood aside to a view of a cobblestoned square, sometimes with a disused well at the center, or, more disturbingly, a scaffold of sorts in tatters. A shutter hung by a hinge. A door stood callously open to a ruined room. And all of it, empty and hollow, wooing the wind.

Too many holes from which snipers could pick them off, one by one. Too many holes from which, in the blink of an eye, a pack could swarm them.

Kirk wondered why such dark thoughts should occur to him. The only inhabitants of this planet that could pose a threat were, after all, Starfleet. But his hope, when he had realized that the crew of the _Troika_ had beamed down to the planet, had all too quickly turned to this feeling of dread. And now his gut was telling him – virtually screaming at him – that something was very wrong with this place.

The scurry of a rodent made him jump. And something else was nagging him, scratching at the tensioned edge of his vigilance.

"Everything alright, Jim?" McCoy, right behind him, asked.

Unintentionally Kirk had stopped. He moved his tongue along his palette, frowning.

"This thirst… The air tastes chalky," he murmured.

It was McCoy's turn to frown.

"To me too, Captain," Dow put in.

"Not to me," McCoy said. That tiny scanner of his was already whirring around Kirk's face, then moved to Dow. "Nothing out of the ordinary with either of you."

Kirk glanced around. The others were shaking their heads.

"Probably nothing," he said, swallowing to get the taste out of his mouth. "Let's take a break. Dow, Forbes, take the watch."

They sat down below a low wall. They had been on-planet for a little over an hour now, and already Kirk felt bone weary. He wished for a cat nap and wondered if it would be a good idea to contact the ship and have water flasks beamed down. Their away mission equipment often left a lot to be desired. He discreetly assessed his men. Their faces betrayed a low-level anxiety. Even Spock seemed on edge.

"Spock? Readings?"

"The majority of this city was built well over a hundred Earth years ago, Captain," said the Vulcan. He sat very still, looking intently at a spot across the alley.

Kirk glanced over. He saw nothing of note.

"But these parts at least haven't been lived in for over a decade, if not longer," Spock continued. "I have seen no evidence that, technologically, this society advanced beyond the pulley. What surprises me is the obvert absence of any religious or artistic architecture. It's all practical, basic."

"And no signs of the _Troika_ crew?" Kirk asked.

"Not until now, Captain," Spock answered, and he nodded in the direction of where he was looking.

Now Kirk spotted it.

"An arrow!" he gasped.

_Why did I miss it? I've been sitting here for five minutes! _

He ran over at a crouch, picked up the stick and returned to the wall with it. He felt the point.

"Newly cut."

"If the city was long deserted when they took shelter here, there would have been no agriculture or livestock for life support," Spock observed.

"So once their supplies ran out they resorted to scavenging," Kirk continued the thought. "Rats, mice, birds. Could starvation have led to their demise?"

"It's unlikely," McCoy put in. "True, the ship's supplies wouldn't have lasted a crew of five-hundred very long. But they could have brought down a generator and a food synthesizer."

Kirk nodded, frowning.

"Too many riddles, gentlemen. I'll be glad to meet someone who can tell us what's going on."


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

Kirk, still at the head of their party, first smelled it. He glanced over at the Vulcan, who nodded briefly to his unasked question.

"Stay," Kirk ordered quietly. "Spock, with me."

Staying low, they advanced twenty feet to a gap in the crumbling stonework of the rampart they'd been following. Kirk looked through.

His lungs drew a sudden, uneven breath as he pulled back behind the wall, his head spinning.

"Captain!"

Spock's whispered alarm brought him back to himself. Setting his jaw he managed to keep control over his breathing. Spock swiftly moved around him, took a look, much longer than his, and proved much better at containing his reaction.

"He has been dead for several days," Spock whispered when he returned to Kirks' side. "Tattered, but unmistakably a Starfleet uniform. A Lieutenant. Crucified, Captain, and half burnt."

_Tortured and left to rot, _Kirk thought, still shaken. He looked back at the others. McCoy especially was giving him a worried look. He pulled his phaser and jerked his head to call them over.

"What the blazes is going on, Jim?" McCoy cursed under his breath. "You look like you've seen a ghost."

Kirk ignored him.

"We're moving on. Phasers ready, on stun. _Don't_ -" he stopped, then continued with more composure, "-don't look through the hole in the wall. Just ignore it. That's an order."

He let Spock and the others pass and closed the rear behind McCoy. He knew full well that the headstrong Doctor wouldn't obey his order.

He put a hand on McCoy's sleeve just as he glanced through.

"We have to-," McCoy started.

Kirk held him back.

"He's beyond our help, Bones. Stay calm. Move on."

Kirk gently pushed the Doctor past the awful vision. He didn't look again when he passed it himself.

000000000000

"Who would do such a thing?" McCoy growled. It was too loud to Kirk's ears.

"Going by our scans, Doctor," Spock said calmly, "the crew of the _Troika_. There seems to be no one else."

"_Impossible_," the Doctor retorted.

Kirk was about to tell McCoy to keep it down when he stopped.

"We'll find out soon enough," he muttered through clenched teeth.

He nodded ahead.

Thirty feet away, blocking their path, stood a man. His clothes were rags held together with ropes. His boots, though ripped and grimy, were unmistakably of Starfleet issue. He held a crude knife to his side.

Kirk motioned for the others to stay as they were and slowly stepped forward. The man responded by lifting his knife and wiring his body to spring. His bloodshot eyes roved their ranks, the knife point trembled in his white-knuckled hand. But there was a tiredness to his aggression, as of a wild animal caged for too long.

Kirk halted and slowly and deliberately returned his phaser to his hip. He advanced again, more slowly, with empty hands outstretched in a conciliatory gesture.

"I am Captain James T. Kirk of the _Enterprise_. We're here on a rescue mission. Are you from the _Troika_?"

The man frowned. In his eyes Kirk could see the effort it was taking him to concentrate. Saliva dripped from the corner of his mouth into his grubby beard. Kirk approached to within ten feet. It was as close he cared to come to this miserable creature.

"_T-Troika_," the man stammered. He lowered the knife. "Ye-es. The _Troika_. R-rescue mission?"

The spark was quickly dying.

"What happened here?" Kirk asked quickly, trying to keep the man's attention. "Is Captain Sidorov still alive? Can you take us to him?"

At the mention of Siderov's name the man again overcame his sullen confusion.

"Yes. Yes, the Captain. Yes, he will want to see you. Come!"

He abruptly turned to go.

"Wait!"

The man turned back, questioning.

"Is it safe?" Kirk asked.

"Safe?" He seemed not to understand Kirk's concern.

"What happened to the man in the square," Kirk asked, pointing behind him. "Who did that?"

"The others. They're not here. It's safe. Come quickly!"

They had no choice but to follow their guide, who moved with a furtiveness that seemed to Kirk instinctive but not due to their present situation. Still, he motioned to the others to keep their phasers raised and ready.

They moved quickly now. He tried to keep track of their tortuous, haphazard route, but soon he lost all sense of direction. He liked it less and less, following this wreck of a man into a place that bore more and more signs for concern. Phaser blasts now scorched the walls. The rubble increased, not from decay but from violent demolition. Here and there it was piled up in defensive reconstructions.

_War zone._

He was about to order them to stop when their guide halted. Alarm bells going off, Kirk stopped in his tracks. He scanned the small, deserted square while also keeping an eye on the man.

The man turned around and in a sing-song cackle that sent shivers up Kirk's spine said,

"Captain Siderov is he-ere."

Kirk spun around.

_In the blink of an eye._

They were surrounded.

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"Hold your fire," Kirk warned the men behind him. "Stay calm."

At a glance he counted twenty of them, drawing closer in a tightening circle. All men, many in worse shape than their first encounter. They had the same dull viciousness on their faces. Their weapons were equally crude: knives, hatchets, clubs, and spikes.

_Where are their phasers? Their communicators? Why is their clothing so primitive? What's wrong with them?_

"I'm Captain Kirk of the _Enterprise,_" he called out forcefully. "We're here to rescue the crew of the _Troika_."

It had the desired effect. The ring stopped closing around them. There was some muttering.

"I wish to speak to Captain Siderov," Kirk commanded.

"_I_ am Siderov."

The circle parted. A man stepped forward.

Kirk recognized the Captain of the _Troika. _He didn't have that crazed look, like the others. His uniform was dirty but still intact, his face was even clean-shaven. Still, Kirk didn't let his guard down, for this wasn't the affable Gavrel Siderov he knew. The man in front of him exuded hostility. He was staring Kirk down with arrogant, burning eyes and a malicious sneer.

"Gav, it's me, Jim Kirk."

"I recognize you," Siderov declared. His very tone was an act of aggression. "You've come _rescue_ us, Jim?"

"Yes," Kirk said cautiously.

Siderov's laugh was mirthless. No one joined him.

Kirk considered frantically what to do next. He senses his men, forming a half circle behind him, their phasers drawn and aimed at the crowd.

_Too many of them, too close…_

"Order them to drop their phasers, Jim," Siderov barked.

The circle started closing in again.

"Do it," Kirk hissed.

"Yours too, Jim."

Kirk pulled the phaser off his belt and dropped it with the others.

"Your communicators," Siderov said.

"Gav, what's going on?" Kirk asked, failing in his effort not to plead.

They were only five feet away now.

"_Your_ communicator, Captain," Siderov insisted.

The point of a long, thin blade came to rest on Kirk's collarbone.

He took the communicator off his belt and gripped it tightly, feeling in its substance his tenuous hold on their lifeline to the _Enterprise. _Giving it up meant surrendering himself and his crew to these mad men.

The sword shifted half an inch and pricked him in the neck.

"Drop it, Jim," urged Siderov, a hint of amusement in his voice.

Kirk dropped it. The sword stayed where it was. Kirk could feel a trickle of blood run down into his uniform collar. For a couple of breathless seconds, nothing happened.

_Are they going to butcher us here and now?_

"Lock them up. Bring Kirk," Siderov ordered.

Suddenly alive with movement, the circle disintegrated around them, and in that chaos, in the corner of his eye, Kirk saw a flash of bright red.

"Don't!" he yelled, spinning around.

Too late. Forbes lunged.

Many hands held him from getting to his man, and he screamed as Forbes was viciously cut down. He roared and struggled in vain. A vice grip around his neck tightened and his vision blurred to the others being dragged away and the spray of blood as his crew man was hacked to pieces in front of him.

"Stop it! Stop it!" he croaked, gasping for air when he was finally released and dropped to his knees into the bloody mud.

"Bring him!" he heard Siderov bark. Hands lifted him, and he was dragged away.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

"Doctor," Spock warned softly.

McCoy's pacing was getting on the nerves of the rest of their group.

McCoy stopped.

"I can't understand it, Spock!"

"Neither do I, Doctor, but I suspect something on this planet has turned them… feral."

"Feral," McCoy burst out, "yes, that's it! Yet, in a tired, shell-shocked way. Almost robotic_._"

"It seemed to me," Spock observed, "that they are out of their minds with fear."

McCoy concurred. "Yes, but of what? Of Siderov?"

"From what the Captain told me about Captain Siderov, I'd say the man we saw is not in his right mind."

"Jim knows him?"

"They were at the Academy together. Siderov graduated two years ahead of the Captain. They were friends."

"_Friends!_"

0000000

They thrust him into a heavy wooden chair and tied his hands behind the backrest, his ankles to the front legs. The leather thongs cut his wrists, but Kirk didn't resist, concentrating instead on conquering his helpless, useless rage and laboriously pulling air through his constricted windpipe. It took a minute before he could draw in sufficient oxygen and his head and vision cleared somewhat.

When he looked up he found himself alone in the room with Siderov. The latter was leaning against the table a few feet away, studying him.

"What's going on, Gav?" Kirk got out, biting down on the pain in his throat.

Siderov laughed that heartless laugh again, but volunteered nothing.

"You're _mad_!" Kirk spat hoarsely, trying a different tactic, and jumped in his chair when Siderov pounded the table with a resounding whack.

"_Mad_?" Siderov yelled, rushing at him. In those eyes Kirk caught a glimpse of a beast and he involuntarily flinched. But Siderov stopped just short of tackling him. Shaking visibly, the older Captain took a deep breath and continued with regained control. "You'll see, Jim. Soon. Soon you'll be one of us!"

"What do you mean?" Kirk breathed.

"Soon you'll call down all of your people and they'll all turn," Siderov declared. "They'll all turn _to me!_"

"I don't know what this is about, but if you think I'm calling any more of my crew down to this forsaken place, forget it!" Kirk spat. He decided he'd rather invite the out-of-control beast than be at the mercy of this block of ice of a man.

Siderov merely observed him coldly. Kirk got the distinct feeling that Siderov was sizing him up for something.

"This is getting us nowhere," he yelled. Siderov wasn't biting, but he continued anyway, if only because yelling relieved his rage and got him passed the pain in his throat. "You butcher my man, torture your own? Over ninety percent of your crew is _dead_! Dead, you hear! _Your_ crew!"

Nothing changed in the man's black eyes. Kirk caught his breath.

"Tell me what happened to them," he continued, exhausted, "We can help you-"

"-Shut up," Siderov interrupted him icily. He leaned down into Kirk's face, looking into his eyes with evil deliberateness.

The sweat turned cold on Kirk's skin.

"Before you turn," Siderov whispered through clenched teeth, "I want to show you how I feel about you, Jim."

"What do you mean?" Kirk asked, newly at a loss. He pulled on his unforgiving bonds.

"Even those of us graduating ahead of you had to live up to your reputation," Siderov hissed with malice. "And it's not like it ever stopped. When you got the captaincy of the _Enterprise_ most of us were still Firsts. _You_'ve lost men too, Kirk! _You _too are to blame for their deaths! But you are always so damn sure of yourself, so damn perfect. Oh but soon you too will grovel in the dirt with the rest of us. You too will betray your crew, your ship, your principles, _Captain_!"

During this display of anger Siderov's command of himself had only grown. The older man now raised himself up but stayed close, too close, towering over Kirk.

"I'm just going to make sure, right now," he sneered, "that you'll have something to remind you of them, so you'll never, ever forget what you've lost!"

He raised his fist. The blow made the chair rock on its back legs.

0000000

Spock was the first to hear them. He leaped up, followed by the Doctor and the remainder of the landing party. McCoy gripped the bars.

The door of their jail opened and Siderov walked in. Spock's heart lurched at the sight of his bruised knuckles. A few paces behind him followed two men, a lifeless James Kirk between them.

"Jim!" McCoy yelled.

Kirk's feet bumped along the floor, his head bobbed. Blood was spilling from his mouth and nose.

Impulsively the Doctor reached through the bars, trying to grab at the closest guard as they passed by their cell, but missed.

Siderov laughed mockingly.

"Why did you do this to him?" McCoy demanded.

Siderov ignored him. He opened the door to the adjacent cell.

"Jim!" McCoy tried again.

The Captain gave no sign of life.

The guards pulled him into the cell and dropped him with a thud, out of reach. They left and Siderov locked the door behind them.

"He needs medical attention," McCoy pleaded. "Let me tend to him."

Siderov, also on his way out, stopped and turned to face the Doctor.

"Oh, he'll be alright, Doctor," he said with calculated indifference. "We were just having a bit of fun. If I wanted to I'd have killed him in a much more painful, more dishonorable way. But I'm going to need him, for a while."

"You've no right to do this," McCoy said helplessly. "We're here to _rescue _you!"

Siderov took a step closer. McCoy recoiled. But for the bars, Spock would have stopped closer. He was fascinated by the man's cold eyes, the eyes of a calculated, uncontrolled sociopath.

"You'll know soon enough," the Captain of the _Troika_ growled, "all of you, that we don't need your _rescue_" – he spat the word. "_You _need rescue, and you'll get it. Then you'll be _like us_."

"What do you mean by that, Captain Siderov?" Spock asked.

Siderov turned to him, unflinching. Now the Vulcan too recoiled, if only inwardly.

"You too, Mister Spock," Siderov sang. "We had two Vulcans in our crew, as you well know. They turned just like we did. Worthy adversaries! Alas," he added in mock lament.

He smiled grimly to their dumbfounded faces, and followed the guards out of the room.

000000

McCoy sat against the bars that separated them from the Captain. Kirk was still lying where the guards had dropped him, out of reach on his side with his back towards them. His breathing was laborious. For two hours he hadn't responded to their pleas.

"Jim?" McCoy tried again.

Kirk stirred.

"Jim! Finally!"

Kirk moved again, choked on something, gasped for air, then doubled up around his pain as he gagged and coughed.

"Calm down, Jim!" McCoy soothed. "Concentrate. Breathe, breathe. There, that's good. Breathe through it…"

The Captain slowly regained control. Still he didn't turn around. McCoy groaned in desperation.

"Captain, can you move towards us?" Spock asked.

No response, though he was clearly still conscious, moving minutely, breathing hard.

Acknowledging his difficulty they waited a few minutes. Slowly the Captain's breathing calmed.

"Jim," McCoy tried again, "can you turn around?"

"No," came the stifled reply. Another cough, just barely controlled.

Spock knew just as well as McCoy that the Captain's _no_ was not one of incapacity, but of refusal.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

Having just regained consciousness he was having trouble not to lose it again. His entire body hurt, the bruised ribs, the broken collar bone, bruised internal organs, and his throat. But the core of the pain was in his face. His nose was broken, his mouth was thick with stale clotted blood, his tongue snagged on broken teeth and his lip was split. His left cheekbone was possibly broken and he couldn't even open his left eye. Blood from the gash above it and from his nose had poured down into his right eye and caked it shut as well. He tried to blink it open but only succeeded when he choked on the blood in his throat and stinging tears sprang into his eyes as he was wracked, coughing and gasping.

So far he had ignored their pleas, but now it was Bones' voice that pulled him back from losing it in his panic. He knew that if he lost consciousness he would choke to death, so he concentrated on McCoy's coaching and succeeded in calming his breathing. He spat blood. His nose had started bleeding again. Cautiously he tilted his head against the welcome chill of the stone floor so the blood wouldn't run into his right eye again.

They were asking him to turn around again.

He knew they hadn't seen the state he was in. The right side of his face – the side presented to them when he had been brought in - was relatively unharmed. As he had surrendered himself to his frenzy, the right-handed Siderov had not thought to vary his repetitive, endless assault.

But if he now turned around...

"No!" he groaned.

Then, regretting his tone and tortured by their stunned silence, he asked, "How long?"

"Five hours and twenty-three minutes since we were captured, Captain," came Spock's even voice. "Two hours and eighteen minutes since they brought you back."

Kirk swallowed painfully and again became aware of that chalky taste in his mouth. It almost overpowered the metallic taste of blood and the salt of phlegm and tears.

"Jim," came McCoy's voice, "Siderov said we would be turning into-into what _they_ are. Do you know what he means?"

"No, Bones," he said, trying with great effort to sound normal. "He wants the entire crew of the _Enterprise _downhere." It felt good now to talk. As he spoke and swallowed his throat cleared, his voice stopped grating and his breathing eased somewhat. "Said I'd call them down myself. I implied he'd have to break every bone in my body before that happened and I guess he took my up on that." He decided against a chuckle. "Then he said that soon I'd be calling them down voluntarily anyway. That soon I would-_turn_."

"Turn… Jim, _please, _can you turn _around_?" McCoy pleaded.

Kirk closed his good eye against the anguish in the Doctor's voice and his own torment at being so isolated from them. Here he was, his back turned towards them, talking to a wall. He lay only fifteen feet away from them, yet he felt alone and absurdly like he was abandoning them.

Moving his limbs carefully, he took stock of his body. He _could_ manage to push himself over. The longing to be with them surged up in him. He pushed off and slowly, painfully dragged himself over to them, his back still turned.

In the last moment he didn't think he'd make it. The pain was too much, the exhaustion rang in his ears, showered his vision with snow. But outstretched hands grabbed the back of his shirt and his belt and carefully pulled him in. Then he rolled, groaning, onto his back.

0000000

McCoy bit down on his sharp inhalation and, setting his teeth against his rage and cursing the bars between them, he began to assess the Captain's injuries.

Siderov had concentrated on the head and face, and the outcome was certainly nasty, but it also meant that Kirk had escaped more serious internal injury in other parts of his body. And aside from a severe concussion, the Captain was lucky. The cheekbone and brow weren't broken, though the latter was possibly fractured. McCoy would have given anything for his medkit to treat the swelling of the assaulted eye so he could evaluate its condition. But the broken nose would be easy to set. Teeth were easy to replace.

_If he ever gets out of here._

The collarbone wasn't broken and the bruising of the larynx was no longer affecting Kirk's breathing, which was however hindered by the three bruised ribs and the one cracked one. If Kirk's breathing continued to be this restricted, he'd soon be at risk of pneumonia. And if they could not immobilize him, his cracked rib could snap and injure him internally.

The Doctor voiced not even half of his findings, just talked reassuringly as he took stock, asking questions.

"Any blurred vision?"

"I'll let you know when I can open my eyes."

"Lack of balance?"

"I'll let you know when I can stand up."

"Okay, what year is it?"

"Ask Spock."

"No need to answer that, Mister Spock! Any headache, confusion?"

_Snort_-"Ouch…"

"Unusual tiredness or anxiety, difficulty thinking or making decisions?"

"Yes, all those, Bones, and the other one too… excessive _irritability_."

Kirk of course had this list of questions memorized from sheer exposure to it. They were just making small talk, a vehicle for their voices and for the comfort they carried back and forth.

"Well, Captain, at least you speech isn't slurred," McCoy quipped.

The Captain managed a lopsided smile. He was losing consciousness again, calmly slipping. McCoy was glad for it. He held Kirk's hand. He no longer said anything. What was there to say? They were trapped in this hell and even if the doors of their cells miraculously opened, he wouldn't recommend even _carrying_ the Captain to safety.

"Bones, you could heal even the dead back to life," Kirk slurred.

"Yeah? Just promise me you won't leave this hell hole without me," McCoy grumbled.

He regretted it instantly and was relieved to see that Kirk had already drifted gently away.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

There's nothing so annoying as to be woken up by a boot pushing your shoulder. He had turned onto his side again in the course of his sleep and under the pressure of the boot rolled stiffly back onto his back. He opened his good eye – his left eye was still swollen shut – and found Siderov looking down on him.

"You're awake."

Kirk made no move, said nothing. There was something in Siderov's face – an expectancy - that told him to wait. He only had to turn his head a little to glance into the other cell.

Only Dow.

The Ensign was kneeling in the middle of the empty cell, his hands tied behind his back. His tearstained face was unbearably fearful, his eyes were pleading with Kirk – what for, Kirk couldn't tell. He clamped down on his instinctive urge to reach out to the young man and instead looked back up at Siderov, who was now down on one knee beside him, peering into his face.

_Expecting to find something there._

Kirk didn't know what, so he kept it grim, meeting the other's gaze with a carefully blended mix of understanding and defiance.

Siderov didn't look convinced.

"Where are the others?" Kirk intoned evenly, trying to make it sound more like a command than a question. He was thankful that his voice was stiff and hoarse again, concealing, hopefully, his uncertainty.

"They're outside. They've turned. Have _you_?"

Panic washed over him. To break the scrutiny of the piercing eyes he tried to raise himself up onto an elbow.

"Help me up, will you?" he demanded gruffly.

_Mistake_.

He cursed when Siderov yanked him up, spun him around and shoved him forward. He screamed in agony as first his face and then his chest hit the bars.

"C-Captain?" Dow pleaded.

"Beat him!" Siderov ordered.

A guard entered Dow's cell with a club, raising it as he approached the frantic Ensign.

"Captain!"

"No!" Kirk yelled.

_He had failed the test._

The guard stopped. Dow broke down sobbing. Kirk slumped against the bars, held up only by Siderov, as the pain and the sickening fear prevented him from standing on his legs.

"You've not turned either," Siderov spat into his ear. "_Why_?"

He abruptly let go. Holding on to the bars, Kirk let himself slide to sitting position as gently as he could manage. The fire in his face was sending flares of pain across his precarious consciousness. His breathing wasn't adequate either.

"Maybe he needs more time?"

Despite his discomfort Kirk swung his head around.

"No-o," Siderov drawled at the man. "It's something else. You figure it out!"

00000000

Kirk saw his friend approach through the haze clouding his vision.

_Bones_, he mouthed.

McCoy didn't even make eye contact. He knelt and set down a large bag, snapping it open.

"_Bones?_"

For a brief moment McCoy's eyes lifted from the bag, shifted and came to rest on him. That is how it was, robotic. And the eyes were those of a shell of a man, their usually intense blue was dull, and behind it, there was no one.

Kirk almost fainted with grief.

"No, Bones, not you," he whispered.

McCoy ignored him. He rummaged in the bag - _not Starfleet _– and took out a metal syringe and a black box. From the box he pulled a small glass vial and a long, metal needle, both of which he clicked into the syringe.

_Syringes? Where are the hypos? _

McCoy rolled up Kirk's sleeve and slapped the vein in the crook of his elbow.

_Here it comes…_

Kirk pulled away but Siderov was there to hold him tightly to the bars.

"McCoy!" Kirk yelled. "Snap out of it, Doctor, it's me!"

McCoy inserted the needle. Kirk gasped, more out of shock than pain. There had been no _care _in that jab. McCoy grunted in pure animal frustration, retracted the needle and roughly plunged it in again. The glass vial quickly filled up with blood. McCoy filled four vials, then pulled out the needle and cursorily bandaged the bleeding puncture wound.

He rose, turned, and walked out. Except for that one look – _empty eyes_ – he hadn't acknowledged Kirk at all.

Siderov relaxed his hold on the Captain.

"What happened to him?" Kirk asked, choking back his rage and grief.

"What should have happened to you, but didn't. If given time he will analyze your and Dow's blood to see why not. Before he turns all the way."

"All the way?"

"Before he loses the knowledge of his technology and the skill of his profession. But don't worry, Kirk. If he doesn't solve it before then, the other doctors from your ship will continue the work."

Kirk didn't have to voice his shock. Siderov's expression lit up with a malicious pleasure.

"Yes, Captain. Mister Spock has been most cooperative. He told Scott that you and the Doctor have been exposed to something possibly contagious, and ordered seventeen medical and security personnel in suits to beam down. But then your Mister Scott got suspicious. He demands to speak to you. That you haven't turned is unfortunate. But there are other ways."

0000000

It was like a parade, Kirk thought, a parade in hell, with each new element adding to his misery.

Spock entered, dragging Ensign Arema Mela in with him. Mela had not been part of the first away team, so Siderov hadn't bluffed. The young woman was struggling against Spock's iron grip on her upper arms. When she saw Kirk she screamed out.

"Captain! What are they doing! What's he going to do to me?"

_Oh gods…_

As for Spock… If McCoy's empty gaze had evoked in Kirk pity and grief, Spock's stone cold black eyes filled him with stark terror. He realized that this _turned _Spock was different from the rest of them, just like Siderov was different. They were the focused and merciless leaders of the pack.

Spock's face became marred by a cruel smile as he looked down at the Captain with intense curiosity.

Kirk pulled away from that hypnotic gaze and turned back to Mela. She had given up her struggle and was hanging, sobbing, head down, in Spock's vice grip.

"A lamb to the slaughter," Siderov sneered, pleased with Kirk's attention for the young woman. "But it's up to you, Jim. Tell Scott to beam up Spock and a security team, and she'll live. Don't, and she'll die. It's that simple. It's up to you."

Mela stared at him and Kirk realized that there was hope in her wide eyes. Trust, in him, her Captain, who had always sacrificed whatever he had, and even what he didn't have, for his crew.

_Look away!_

He looked away at the communicator that Siderov had flipped open and was holding in front of his face.

"Kirk to _Enterprise,_" Kirk said, trying to keep his voice normal.

"Captain!" came Scott's anguished voice. "What is going on down there? Mister Spock is making the strangest requests! Are ye alright?"

"Scotty, I'm… I've been better." He swallowed against the despair of what he had to do. "Mister Scott, I'm invoking general order nineteen-"

Siderov snapped the communicator shut and ruthlessly punched Kirk in the chest.

Kirk bent over double with the stabbing pain and slid to the ground, gasping as the cracked rib fractured and its jagged edge punctured his lung.

"I warned you he would do this," he heard Spock say, with cool amusement.

It felt like his chest had collapsed into a black hole that threatened to suck him in. There was no more room for air, for _him. _But there was one more thing he had to endure before he passed out.

It was the hallucination, tilted ninety degrees, of Spock drawing a knife, smoothly, almost tenderly, over Arima Mela's throat.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

She was checking the tube when he moaned. She put her hand on his bare arm. It soothed him and it soothed her, too, the warmth of his skin, the firmness of the muscle underneath it. She couldn't help it. She was a nurse, and she needed the comfort, but she knew she was taking a risk. Once already Spock had almost caught her. If he had, he would have killed her, or thrown her to the dogs outside. The dogs… the crew. She knew what happened to women out there.

But Spock had been too busy with his power struggles to take notice. And McCoy… the Doctor had declined into lethargy soon after she had arrived. He didn't even notice that she set the Captain's broken nose so that he could breathe easier. He had been dismissed, a shell of a man, and his whereabouts now were unknown to her.

_Oh, Len…_

But she had persevered, stubbornly, just like she imagined _he _would. She only had to look at _him_ and it was like all his indomitable will was hers for the taking, as much of it as she could stand.

So she had fooled them, pretended, schemed, stolen. She had betrayed all she stood for, screaming inside but outwardly dead to Dow's suffering when Spock injected him with the formula. She had taken Dow's blood and blood from two murdered men, of the _Troika_ crew. Yes, she admitted it, she was thankful for that small favor.

She had managed to save and hoard two hypos and a precious, well-stocked medical kit. No tricorder though, and no communicator.

The crew, after their turning, had a hatred for these things. They demolished anything that demanded technical or scientific insight. Even for Spock the only value in a communicator was that it could bring down more fodder for his violent lust for power and inflicting pain. He had saved the Captain's life with the chest tube only because it had been necessary to prolong Kirk's life for his own purposes. He too had switched over to syringes, with needles that were none too clean – there were a large number of these around, presumably remnants from the previous inhabitants of this city. He seemed to find the sensation of driving that lance into his victim's flesh irresistible.

Chapel shuddered and indulged for another second in the warmth of the Captain's skin under her palm.

It was Dow who had saved her. They had beamed down right into a trap. First they were held outside in a cage - most of them. Ensign Mela had been dragged away, never to be seen again. Then they were herded into the prison building. It was like a chamber of horrors, with too much blood on the floor and a hysterical Dow.

Once he had calmed down they listened to his story, horrified. How Forbes had been slaughtered, how Siderov had told them they would turn, and how they did, one after another a mere couple of hours after their capture, while the Captain lay in a near coma in the next cell over. How the Captain had tried to bluff and had failed by saving Dow's life. How he had given Mister Scott general order nineteen. How Spock had slit Mela's throat.

"And where is he now, the Captain?" Chapel had asked.

"He is dead," Dow howled. "They took him away. He was blue in the face. Dead, we're all dead…"

She hadn't believed it, about the turning, until she saw it happening herself, while Dow curled up in a ball and became catatonic. She had had no choice. She had succeeded where the Captain had not.

But had it not been for seeing him _alive_, and for the knowledge that he needed her, she would not have been able to keep it up. He had saved Dow with the truth – the truth that he had refused to sacrifice for Mela's life, saving countless others. She was saving his life – and her own – with deception.

Kirk moaned again, his eyelids fluttered. He was close to regaining consciousness. The swelling of his face had subsided considerably after she furtively gave him an anti-inflammatory. How shocking it had been to find him so beaten, his handsome, boyish face disfigured, the left side of his chest one ugly bruise. She would have betrayed herself that moment, but Doctor McCoy had already turned away, utterly indifferent to his friend's pain.

Still pressing his arm she closed her eyes for a second in silent, wordless prayer. She had immediately, unconditionally taken custody of him, whom she had never seen so vulnerable. She had often taken care him in sickbay, nursed him while he lay struggling with death. But even then he had inspired confidence in her, that she was safe, that he was safe. But here everyone was their enemy, his enemy especially. Even his friends, those he called his brothers, no longer loved him. So _she_ loved him, tried to make up for all the love he had lost here. Had Spock tried to kill him, she would have thrown herself between them and begged for her own death.

But now he was about to wake up and they would stand together. She believed in him. He was her Captain.

00000000

Kirk woke up to his wrists strapped to the bed, but comfortable. The narrow bed was soft and the large stone room was warmed by a fire in the hearth. His face no longer hurt so much. His left eye was opening a little, though what he saw through it was of little use. He could breathe through his nose again. Most importantly, the excruciating constriction in his chest with which he had gone into oblivion was greatly relieved. He could even breathe better than before. The tube stuck high in the left side of his chest probably had something to do with that.

"You have a pneumothorax," said Nurse Chapel, appearing to his left.

Kirk stared at her. Had there been any monitoring equipment it would have registered a rapid increase in his heart rate.

"The broken rib punctured the pleural cavity of your left lung. The valve is needed to prevent the buildup of air in your chest cavity," Chapel said, "so your lung can expand and heal. Why haven't you turned, Captain?"

"I don't know," Kirk answered simply.

He was in shock. She was so austere, so focused and _in control,_ that he was in awe of her. Was she also different, like Spock, or… He decided to put her to the test he had failed.

"Why haven't _you_ turned, Chris?" he asked, very softly.

Tears sprang to her eyes and he was instantly remorseful.

"Sh-sh," he soothed urgently, "Don't cry, don't cry."

"Oh, Captain," she whispered, "it is so hard, so awful to pretend. To see them, _Leonard_, and Spock…"

She shuddered and he moved his hand to her hand, resting next to it on the coverlet. Even that small movement made him cringe with the pain in his chest, and that at least had the effect of recalling her to her duty as a nurse.

"Oh, I'll be alright, Captain," she contended quickly, drawing herself up. She carefully put his hand back on the coverlet and checked the tube. And she told him her plan.

"I've taken blood samples – from their corpses – and I got hold of some of the formula Spock and Doctor McCoy devised."

"McCoy?"

Chapel shook her head with sadness and shame.

"He is like an animal now, a very frightened one. They hunt each other…" She set her jaw against the horror. "Soon Spock will come to relieve me, and he usually carries the communicator. If we overpower him and contact the _Enterprise_, they'll beam us and the samples up and we can figure out what sets us apart and what might possibly cure them."

Torn between relief and suspicion, Kirk hesitated. Chapel seemed to have foreseen this complication.

"Okay," she volunteered. "Mister Scott can set up a containment field, in case we carry the disease."

Still Kirk hesitated. Again Chapel was prepared for it.

"Captain," she said with some frustration. "I want to get out of here, and I'm sure you do too, but if you insist that we stay we should at least have Mister Scott beam up the samples, so Doctor M'Benga can figure it out."

This was enough for Kirk. He had just wanted that minute suspicion lifted, that Chapel might be tricking him. Now he found he could no longer distrust her self-sacrifice and, especially, her kindness.

"I'll take the second option, the containment field with us in it, Chris. What about Ensign Dow? He didn't turn either."

"He is dead, Captain," she said, and Kirk could see there was great hurt there. To distract herself from it she walked around to his other side and undid the strap around his right hand. "Spock tried McCoy's formula on him." Choking back the horror, she leaned over Kirk to undo the other wrist strap.

"_Nurse_!"


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

Chapel froze.

Spock was standing with his hand on the door knob, ten feet behind Chapel's back.

Thinking fast, Kirk yelled, "Please no!" and with his freed hand reached over and pulled the tube out of his chest, thrusting it into Chapel's hands.

Spock was upon them in a second. He grabbed Chapel's shoulder and viciously spun her around. He snatched the tube from her and shoved her behind him.

"We still need him," he snarled.

Kirk gasped for air, resisting the urge to turn on his side to curl up around the paroxysm in his chest. But Spock did not replace the tube. He just stood there, looking down at him with fascination, like he was an experiment in pain. Kirk cursed inwardly. That he had to go through this agony again, by his own hand, no less!

"_Spock_," he croaked.

Spock waited another two, excruciating seconds, then held him down – steel, _cold_ hands – and with unwavering precision reinserted the tube.

Kirk wheezed, filling his lungs with air.

"Leave," Spock sneered at Chapel, "you are of no more use to me."

He turned back to Kirk and, a cruel smile on his thin, pale lips, stated, "I believe I have the right dosage now."

He produced a syringe and waved it in front of Kirk's face.

Kirk grabbed for it with his free hand but Spock easily caught his wrist and forced it down.

"Where is Siderov?" Kirk asked, frantic to ward off that needle.

"He is dead. I killed him. I am curious, Captain, how the turning will affect you. I will be glad for a worthy adversary. The others, they turn and slip, like McCoy, and Chapel now. Fear overtakes them and they are consumed, leaving nothing but pathetic _prey_. But if your innate perseverance survives, you and I will fight our own game to the death. After we've transferred the entire crew to the city."

"And if I don't turn?"

Spock placed the needle on the exposed skin of Kirk's arm, on the red welt where McCoy had stuck him.

"Then either you are dead and no less useless to me than you are now, or you survive and I can kill you more slowly."

"Spock, don't," Kirk said hoarsely. "Remember we are friends, _Spock_. This isn't you, this-"

Spock gasped. Shock and rage exploded on his face. The syringe fell out of his hand and clattered to the stone floor. He opened his mouth to scream but no sound came out. He spun around, revealing to Kirk a terrified Chapel, a hypo still in her hand. She recoiled from Spock's wild lunge. The Vulcan missed her and hit the floor.

"Is he-dead?" Kirk asked.

Even after all Spock had done to him, the sight of his motionless body was devastating.

"Just sedated, but not for long," Chapel said, her voice tight with control.

She hurried to undo the restraint on his other wrist and helped him sit up on the side of the bed. He waited there, catching his breath, while she searched Spock's body for the communicator.

"It's not here!" she cried out. She looked up at him, panic blossoming in her face. "He's not carrying it!"

Kirk cursed inwardly, but he managed to keep a calm face. She had done enough, and now it was his turn to take over and bring them home.

"The helmets," he said. "You came down in environmental suits. Where are the helmets?"

It didn't help.

"They were destroyed, Captain," she pleaded, "when we arrived. They tore the suits apart, smashed the helmets, and burnt all of it in a big bonfire."

"And _our_ helmets, the ones my party came with?"

"I-I would think they're still where you left them. Spock could have remembered them, but I doubt he has had the time to retrieve them. First he was busy with the formula, then with Siderov."

"Let's hope they're still there then," said Kirk, gingerly sliding off the bed. He grimaced with the pain in his side but found he could stand. "Can you… can you tape me up, give me something? We're going to have to make a run for it."

Chapel gave him a couple of shots with the hypo with which she had immobilized Spock. She skillfully taped the tube to his skin, taped up his ribs, then bandaged his chest. After helping him into his uniform shirt – still bloodied and torn, but serviceable - she strapped to his side his left arm, movement of which aggravated the condition of the broken rib. She tied a cloak around his shoulders and helped him pull on his boots.

She then took from underneath the large table the black pouch with the blood samples. She retrieved the syringe from under the bed, removed the vial with the new formula and added it to the collection.

For all this Kirk was still just standing by, getting a sense of what his body could bear and letting the painkiller and the stimulant kick in. Whenever she looked at him he tried to project that he could handle it – standing up, at least. She would have to make it on her own if he failed, and she should be free of him as a burden.

"Can you give him something more?" he asked when finally she tied her own robe around her shoulders.

"I-I don't know, Captain. I don't know much about Vulcan physiology. Even this dose was a gamble…"

Kirk's face was grim.

"It's a risk we'll have to take. If he wakes up he'll know immediately where we've gone, and he'll be faster than us…"

Chapel nodded, simply, and Kirk was grateful the she questioned him no further. She entered the dosage on the hypo and injected Spock with it.

Then she hesitated.

"Captain," she said, "if they find him unconscious like this, they'll kill him. He's not a… benevolent master."

Kirk looked around the room. He took his first couple of steps – _not too bad_ – and checked out the low window.

"We can leave through here. We'll lock the door from the inside. It's all we can do."

Chapel slowly opened the window. She looked through, then turned to him and said,

"Ready, Captain?"

He wanted to say to her how proud he was of her. She had shown courage, perseverance, intelligence and foresight. If they got off the planet alive, if they managed to cure the others, it would be thanks to her. But, knowing how precarious her emotional balance was, he said nothing to that effect.

"Ready," he said instead, setting his teeth.


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

Fortunately it was night. Going by the diffused, uncanny glare surrounding them, Kirk suspected that the planet's two moons were up, but that their light was smothered by the ubiquitous fog. It also obscured their target, which would have been plainly visible on a clear night, and confused his sense of direction, but it gave them sufficient cover.

"Where are the helmets, Captain?" Chapel asked.

"To the north, on the hill."

"I know where that is," Chapel whispered, with evident relief. "They are at war, mostly the _Troika_ against the _Enterprise, _but there are factions_. _The fighting is mostly in the west of the city. We should circumvent it. It doesn't stop, with nightfall."

Kirk stood staring at her.

"Are you telling me, Nurse," he said gravely, "that while you were keeping up your pretense, saving my life and fighting Spock, you also managed to follow the tactical situation? They should make you a starship Captain, Christine Chapel!"

"I'd prefer not, Captain!" she whispered forcefully. Then she blushed. "I've had enough for a lifetime," she added sheepishly.

"Okay, show the way. Stay to the left of me. I'm blind on that side."

They moved stealthily, too slowly to Kirk's liking but then it was as fast as he could go if he was to last the distance. They chose the smallest, darkest alleys, finding them mostly deserted. The thick fog helped, but his misgivings about it escalated when his leg bumped something out of place, something soft. He looked down and skipped back from what was crouching there.

The man – not one of his – was a living carcass, hollowed out by hunger and the constant horror of this place. He didn't even lift up his head to see who they were. Whatever they had to give him, he would take it. They quickly hurried on, the Captain hoping, against his better judgment, that they would be able to save this one.

There were intermittent screams in the distance, further and further away as they went. Once he thought it was Chekov, crying out in rage.

Chapel gently pushed him forward.

"We can't do anything for them right now, Captain."

_So true._

They must have crept and stumbled for about an hour when Kirk became aware of a change. He stopped to listen. The sounds of boots ringing on cobblestones, the stifled shouts were nearer now, and approaching.

"Hurry, Chris," he urged.

They picked up their pace but soon Kirk found himself limping along, alarmingly out of breath. Chapel pulled his right arm over her shoulders to give him support. They were so close. He recognized the buildings. But now that they were climbing the hill he was rapidly losing the battle. The slicing pain in his side made each movement an agony, and the lack of oxygen was making his head swim. Soon he found he couldn't take another step.

He disentangled himself from her - it hurt him, as if he had just cut his life supply – and sought support against a slimy wall. An order was being yelled.

_Too close_.

"Run-Chris," he gasped, "helm-don't wait—for-"

"-I can't leave without you!" Chapel hissed.

"Scotty-Queen to King's-Level Five."

"That's not what I meant," Chapel intoned severely. She slung her arm around him again, pulled him up and started carrying him along.

Ten feet and suddenly they were free of the fog. Kirk looked up and there, in the stark light of the dual moons, loomed the wall where they had deposited their helmets.

"There," he groaned, pointing ahead.

It was no use. Ten more feet and that was all he had in him. He lost his balance, slipped from her grasp and crashed to the ground.

"Go! An-order, _Nurse_!" he bit.

Chapel, her face streaked with tears, nodded and ran.

He looked behind him. Footsteps, quick, muffled in the dirt, very close now. Then out of the fog, like through a door, stepped a tall, slim figure.

_Spock_.

0000000

Spock had been running, but when he saw Kirk he slowed to a stroll.

"Well, well. Captain, you nearly made it. _Nearly_."

Kirk let his head fall back against the cool earth. It took a couple of seconds for Spock to reappear in his vision.

"I seem to have lost the formula," he said lightly, looking down on Kirk. Then he came down on his knees beside him. "I wanted to test it, because there are bound to be more like you. But I have thought of another way, specifically for_ you_."

Kirk abruptly knew what he meant.

_Not this!_

Digging his heel into the dirt he tried to propel himself away, but Spock's hand landed on his shoulder and pinned him to the ground. The Vulcan leaned in, closer. Never had his face seemed so alien, so menacing to Kirk. He told himself this _wasn't_ Spock. But the face was the same.

Spock's free hand hovered for a moment in between them. Kirk grabbed the wrist with both hands, but he was no match for the Vulcan's strength. He averted his face but the long, sure fingers were steadily approaching.

"_Spock_," Kirk groaned through clenched teeth, "I forbid you. I _forbid _you!"

Fingertips, like feathers, fluttered against his temple, his cheek and chin.

Then he was there, a hellish presence in his mind, and it was Spock. Not someone else, but Spock. And Spock was an inferno of evil, a searing ring of fire licking at his mind.

Kirk screamed, grasping for shields, with the force he had left to him _driving out_ the demon at the edge of his sanity-

-The contact broke.

Spock was physically driven aside, swinging away from him, like a puppet on a string.

"Ca-ain!"

_Who?_

"A- y-ight?"

He stared at the apparition looming over him, its face fragmented, its movements jerky. The chaos in his mind was spilling over into all his senses. Setting his teeth, he tried to pull himself together. Spock had been in his mind before, and Spock had trained him, to the extent possible, in such crises. But if the meld had gone on for one more second… He shuddered and Nurse Chapel's face coalesced, and it was soft, kindly, concerned – so different from Spock's.

"Captain, did I kill him?" she cried out, looking back to where Spock lay, ten feet away.

Kirk stared at the helmet she was holding. The visor was shattered.

"Captain? Are you okay?" Chapel repeated, panicking now, shaking his shoulder.

He nodded.

"Let's-go," he whispered.

With a trembling finger she pushed the small silver key at the bottom of the helmet.

"_Enterprise_?" she spoke into it.

"Nurse Chapel!"

"Mister Scott, I have the Captain here."

She held the helmet close to his mouth.

"Scotty," he said. His voice was almost a whisper. "Queen to-King's Level -Five. Maximum- containment. Two-now."

"Aye, Captain!"

Chapel tossed the helmet and started to pull him up.

"Can you stand, Captain?"

"Ye—"

Like a dead man brought back to life, Spock rose up behind her. Blood, black in the monochrome moonlight, washed down his alabaster face. His eyes, dark craters at the bottom of which shone a demented obsession, found Kirk. The monster reeled and took one lurching step toward them, raising something in his hand.

The dagger's blade glistened.

With a surge of strength he could only have borrowed from the cursed planet underneath him, just as the shimmering started that would, if only a few seconds sooner, have whisked them away from it, Kirk spun and put himself into the path of the whispering knife.

0000000

Transporter platform. Pink gleam. Christine, pale angel with bloody hands. Men in containment suits. Oxygen mask. M'Benga. Bones?

_No, not Bones._


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9**

McCoy, she knew, would have slipped something into his system to make him sleep a couple more hours. But knowing what he went through, and what he still had ahead of him, she had talked M'Benga out of it.

Now here it came, the fluttering of the eyelids followed by abrupt, wide-eyed consciousness. His gaze, looking at her but not seeing her, flooded with panic, recognition, finally memory. Then he saw her, and smiled.

"Why do you always want to be the hero?" she asked softly.

That drew a smirk, ragged with worry and exhaustion, but it gladdened her.

They had temporarily patched him up before the decontamination procedures and sonic scrub-down in the containment field. It was taxing, to say the least, to have every alien particle – whether the sensors recognized it as harmful or not – scoured from your body, even from the air in your lungs. She had been afraid he would not survive it, but also knew that if they cut corners, he would be livid.

That was fourteen hours ago, and in the meantime he had also undergone surgery for his chest and facial injuries. The incipient pneumonia had been halted. His eye had been the trickiest. Though it was open now and looking at her, and though he wasn't making a mention of it, she doubted whether he could see anything with it yet.

"I already had a hole in my chest," he said, still smiling. "I thought, how much could one more hurt?"

"And, did it hurt?"

His brow darkened. Was it her imagination, or was there still a trace of the bruise there? Would she now always see that dark welt there when she looked at him?

"Yes, but only because it was Spock who threw the knife."

He frowned for a second longer, then recovered, too quickly to her liking.

"Have you found the antidote?"

"We isolated a compound in the blood samples, but it's incredibly complex," she began.

"If I may, Captain," said M'Benga, who was hovering nearby. "We did make several discoveries. The compound affects brains differently. Humans and humanoids seem to succumb to it within hours, but the race that colonized the planet may have had had a different brain structure. Either the disease only caught up with them after they had had time to build their city, or it affected them less, but nonetheless weakened them sufficiently to make their civilization unsustainable."

She watched his mounting dismay. M'Benga's explanation was making their lack of progress painfully clear.

"The Sarans on board the _Troika _may not have turned at all, but Vulcans' brains seem to be sufficiently like human brains to react in the same manner," the Doctor went on. "As for the difference in reaction between Mister Spock and Captain Siderov on the one hand, and the others, I have a theory that adrenaline might play a role-"

"-_And_," he interrupted, out of patience, "as for the difference between _them_ and Nurse Chapel, Dow and myself?"

M'Benga sighed. "We don't know, Captain. Mister Spock's formula – which, by the way, would have left you in a permanent coma – is yielding very little information. We simply cannot isolate the antibody-"

But he was indomitable.

"-Doctor," he interrupted again, "when we first beamed down to the surface I had a chalky taste in my mouth. Dow said he had it too, but none of the others did."

Her heart skipped.

"I did too!" she cried out. "I thought it was thirst at first, then maybe the water, or the taste of… of fear. Then it went away. Why didn't I remember that?"

"Don't blame yourself, Nurse Chapel," he said, "it went away and slipped my mind too."

"Mm," said M'Benga pensively, "it could be some kind of enzymatic response to the disease. I'll investigate that possibility immediately."

"Christine," he asked when the doctor had left. His hand sought hers on the bed. "Tell me, who is down there?"

She sighed, but knew better than to try to talk him out of it. She gave his hand a squeeze and took a seat on the chair next to his bed, taking the PADD she had been working on.

"Commander Spock," she began, and had to clear her throat. "Chief Medical Officer Leonard McCoy, Ensign Pavel Chekov…."

He listened with eyes closed, as if deep in prayer.

00000000

Kirk studied the faces in the briefing room. It was packed with his chief personnel, and then some. They were all talking amongst themselves, anxiously, softly, and they were avoiding his eye. Their friends and loved ones were down there, and they had been informed about the horror of that place.

He had left them there, left without them.

_Spock, Bones..._

He sought out Nurse Chapel, who was there to keep a medical eye on him. He might be fooling everyone else, but not her. Emotionally he was on the verge of collapse and physically he shouldn't even be sitting up. If McCoy were here he'd have strapped him to the biobed and left business to Spock…

His mask slipped, but Chapel caught it, and with an anxious, encouraging smile slid it back into place.

_For the crew, take charge._

"Starfleet orders," Kirk began, his voice growing firmer with every word, "are to sit tight and wait for the research ship to arrive. That could take… how long, Mister Scott?"

"Seven weeks, Captain, at a minimum."

He wished he too could adopt that pained squint of apprehension that Scotty was wearing.

_Captain's not permitted…_

"Seven weeks. By then they'll have slaughtered each other, to the last man. There is no other option. We have to go down and contain them, _control_ them, until we find that antidote."

There was a brief, reluctant silence.

"But Captain," Scotty began, doubt added to the flush on his face, "we would have to go in suits and there are precious few of them left! Also, those things are rigid. The helmets afford hardly any visibility. Even armed with phasers we'd be extra vulnerable. One tear and the wearer gets to join their ranks!"

"But we can track them with our sensors, Mister Scott," Kirk countered. He was already out of breath. "Catch them in small groups, guerilla style-"

He broke off. Who was he kidding, Scotty was right. He couldn't risk another life. If only he could rest his head on the table, just for a moment…

Just then M'Benga burst into the room.

"I've got it!" the Doctor shouted. "It _is_ an enzyme, the antibody! You, Ensign Dow and Nurse Chapel each have a gene mutation that -"

"-Can you synthesize that, Doctor?" Kirk interrupted, cutting through the sudden excitement in the room.

"The lab technicians are doing that right now, Captain," said M'Benga – and everyone in the room exhaled. "Two formulae, one for prevention, one for treatment. I may have to tweak the dosage of the latter, but I'm confident it will be effective. And it should work within minutes."

Kirk allowed himself to smile, for the first time publically, since his return to the _Enterprise._

"Should I contact Starfleet, Captain?" Uhura asked.

Kirk didn't have to think about that one.

"No, Lieutenant, not yet. Let's first… gather more information. Lieutenant Kyle, start tracking their movements. Find any patterns, routines. Scotty, find a way to deliver that formula from a distance. Doctor, organize sickbay for combat conditions. We'll be looking at battle injuries, trauma…" He was losing his train of thought.

"Malnutrition," Chapel added, "exposure, possibly deep emotional distress, if they remember what-what has happened. We'll take care of it, Captain."

Scott took the hint.

"Alright, lads, commence work now," he said, standing up, "no time to lose!"

The room emptied, leaving only the Captain, who remained seated, and the Nurse who stood by his side.

"You think they blame you," she said as soon as the door had closed.

"Nurse-" he began.

"-Don't 'Nurse' me, Captain!" Chapel countered, firmly and not without a hint of annoyance. "You hear me out, just this once. They don't blame you. And they hate it that you blame yourself."

His mouth opened but he said nothing. How like McCoy she sounded, putting him in his place.

"I blame myself too," she went on in a softer voice. "Of course I do. We left them there. But we had no choice. And now we are going to bring them back. You have to keep yourself together, and put the blame behind you, because they don't have a lot of time."

She had spoken as much to herself as to him, so he nodded both as affirmation and encouragement. But that was about all he could do. Chapel suddenly realized his predicament.

"Oh, Captain, I'm sorry," she began.

"-It's okay, Chris. Just… just have the corridors to Sickbay cleared? The crew has seen enough of their Captain on a gurney."


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10**

The first three forays were straightforward, and Kirk directed those skirmishes from a console in Sickbay. Landing parties rounded up the smallest and most isolated groups of individuals, twenty-eight of them, all from the _Troika_. They could barely stand, let alone resist.

The news was good. His men on the ground informed him that the treatment worked within seconds of administration and had no noticeable side effects beyond an initial spell of faintness and disorientation. Kyle, who was leading the effort, reported that the captives were all in bad shape, some critical, but that they would all survive.

"And Captain," came Kyle's voice, "they instantly forget. They don't remember a thing."

Kirk closed his eyes. Chapel, next to him, squeezed his hand.

"Only two will remember" he said, as much to her as to himself. "Thank God, only two."

000000000000

Despite the Doctor's strenuous protests it wasn't long before the Captain released himself from Sickbay. He insisted that the beds were needed for the incoming casualties and that he was needed for the next phase.

The next phase was the containment of the _Enterprise _crew, which was in much better shape than the wreckage from the _Troika_.

"Chief Security Officer Kyle," Kirk ordered, formidable at the head of the briefing table. "We're going after the Alpha target next. Meet me in the Transporter Room in five minutes."

Chapel intercepted him in the corridor.

"You can't go down there! You're in no shape!"

Kirk stopped and turned to her, laying his hands lightly on her shoulders.

"Chris," he pleaded, "we're going after Spock now. He's their leader. We take him out, we disorganize all of them. And you know as well as I do that the formula might not work on him, or might take longer to take effect. I can't trust Kyle's team to… to take Spock out, if they need to. I need to be there."

"And _you_ would take him out?" she asked, a frown of confusion between her eyes.

It was a genuine question to which he lacked an answer.

He let go of her shoulders and continued his march. She had no choice but to follow him. He entered the transporter room and walked straight onto the platform. There was to be no further discussion.

Kyle moved to join him on, but Chapel touched him on the arm.

"Stay to his left," she whispered. "He is blind on that side."

0000000

_This place again._

It was no less depressing because it was daylight and the fog had not yet risen from the mud. The sky was still gray, the broken buildings still stood around them like jagged, rotten teeth, the rats still scurried among the rubble. And there was that song again, sung by a demented Robin.

And here was one of his men, lying on his stomach in the dirt. The angle of his neck was wrong, his face too white, his eyes too open, horror-struck and alert. As if the disease was lifted just before death.

Kirk knelt beside him.

"It's Kiva, Sir," someone informed him.

"Yes," said Kirk simply. He remembered Kiva, an orderly on McCoy's Sickbay shift who had helped him several times. "Yes," he whispered again, a quiet affirmation of his gratitude and his grief, as he gently closed the dead man's eyes.

"Captain! Captain, it's the Doctor!"

Kirk sprang up and rounded the corner to find Singh and Kyle kneeling next to a man, also clad in medical blue.

_Alive?_

"I got him, Sir! The antidote is working!" Kyle called out.

They made way for their Captain.

"_Bones!_"

Kirk took McCoy by the shoulders and helped him sit up against the wall.

"Jim! Jim? What in the blazes is going on? What's this dart sticking in my chest for? Why do I feel so-"

The Doctor's eyes widened and latched onto Kirk. For a moment, the Captain was very afraid that McCoy remembered.

"Jim, you're _hurt_!" McCoy cried out. He tried to get up, but Kirk held him down.

"I'm better, Bones," he laughed, trying not to shake the good Doctor too much. "M'Benga and Chapel patched me up. You relax now, we'll take you home-"

McCoy shook off Kirk's hands and gently touched his chin to move his face to the side, so he could take a better look.

"You're sure you're fine, Jim? Any pain?"

Kirk drank in his friend's scrutiny, his compassion and kindness.

_I have it all back_, he thought. _It has been given back to me._

"I'm fine now, Bones_."_

"_Looks_ fine…" McCoy murmured, ready to make a comment, but his hand fell back, and he fainted.

Kirk reluctantly surrendered him to the Ensign.

"Beam up with him, Singh. Kyle," he called, standing up. "Have you located Mister Spock?"

"I have, Sir. He is retreating to the west, with the last ten others. There are only seven of us, Captain. Maybe we should wait till more men are available."

"There's no time, Mister Kyle. If he retreats into the forests we'll never catch him. We have the tricorders, the phasers and the darts. We have the advantage. We _have_ to go after him now."

000000000

Hours later he wished he did have the luxury of waiting for more men. They had captured all but Spock and Chekov, but the cost had been high. Spock's group had been well-organized and had consisted of the security men, who were robotically faithful to their ruthless leader. His own men were exhausted from effort and the pain of seeing their comrades' unfeeling cruelty towards them. They had suffered injuries and Kirk had had to send up all but Kyle.

He himself wasn't doing so well either. The painkillers and stimulants that Nurse Chapel had administered were wearing off, and the jarring pain each time his foot landed on the ground sliced through his fatigue. His halved vision was beginning to trouble his balance, and the stress of having that blind spot in his defenses wasn't helping his mental balance either.

But Spock was very close to the edge of the city, where the endless forest of this continent began. And Kirk could not let him go.

"Watch out!" Kyle yelled.

Kirk spun to his left just in time to deflect the hurled rock with his forearm. A flash of yellow moved away among the broken rubble. Chekov!

Kyle fired.

Kirk cursed when the Russian went down, a dart between the shoulder blades, and hit his head on a rock. Not even bothering the check for Spock, he ran to the fallen man. He was unconscious and bleeding heavily from the gash at his temple.

Kyle ran up, stumbling as he looked over his shoulder. The man was exhausted.

Kirk stood.

"Beam up with Chekov."

"But Captain, you can't go after Mister Spock all by yourself!"

"That was an order, Mister Kyle," Kirk snapped.

He knew he was being reckless now, but he no longer cared.

Kyle looked away from his Captain's disturbed glare. Obediently he stood and ordered two to beam up. Then they were gone.

"Come on, Spock," Kirk whispered. "It's just me now. You and me."


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11**

Spock wasn't going to make it easy for him.

The Vulcan had been wounded in their previous scuffle, but he was obviously still thinking clearly and physically in good shape. He seemed to know his way around the edges of the city. And he had obviously observed the Captain's weak spot – all the attacks on him had come from the left.

Now he was slowly wearing down the Kirk's last strength, leading him on, drawing from him small bursts of energy as he dodged Spock's attacks or threw himself into wasteful attempts to gain on him. The Vulcan was always just within reach to hurl a well-aimed rock, but just out of reach of the darts, and quick enough to find cover against the phaser.

Kirk heard a noise and spun, aiming his phaser and firing at the flash of blue. His aim was badly off. He stood, swaying.

Spock laughed.

Disgusted, Kirk threw down his phaser, unlatched the dart gun and dropped that too into the dirt.

"Spock!" he yelled, breathless. "I can't-I give up."

He had said it before he knew it. It was simply the truth. Now Spock was either going to walk into the forest and walk out of their lives forever, or he was going to come to him and…

_And what?_

And then, it comes.

He doesn't know what hits him. Spock slams into him and the momentum carries them all the way to the wall, crushing Kirk into it. For a moment there is a little distance, a little breathing space from which Kirk draws a ragged breath.

_No!_

The brutality in Spock's face, the vicious growl and the hate flaming in his black eyes stop Kirk's heart.

_He is my enemy. Before I was just a means to his end. Now I am the end. The end of me._

A claw closes around his neck. No amount of clutching and pulling will remove that vise, tightening, tightening.

No, he never thought it would be like this.

_The end of all love, hope._

And before he knows it, he has fallen victim to his fear. His blood runs cold, because it never happens to him. Fear is his strength. He turns it into _will_, and will into action. He is most courageous, most successful when his fear is greatest. He has made a career out of his fear!

Not now. He cannot harness it, own it, and ride it, because Spock knows him too well and will not let him. Spock _is _the fear, the juggernaut of his nightmares, the unstoppable thing he cannot escape nor bend to his will.

"You've done this before, Spock," Kirk croaks. He is being lifted off his feet. His neck feels like it might snap. "You _regretted_ it," he sobs.

Spock's eyes are not devoid of emotion, on the contrary, they are alive with it, with hatred densely, furiously alive.

"Spare me your sorrow, Jim," the Vulcan sneers.

His fingers move on Kirk's neck, searching out the veins, the nerves, applying pressure so accurately, to such excruciating effect.

"I have something you want," Kirk whispers. His brain feels like it is about to explode inside his skull. Tears are streaming from his eyes but he holds Spock's gaze.

"What I want is to kill you," Spock snarls.

"I have-the _cure_," Kirk manages.

Something changes in those alien eyes. The fingers relax, minutely but enough to allow him one labored breath. He spends this precious air immediately.

"Remember who you were," he hurries, "who _we _were. _Friends_. What is best, Spock, that we are friends, or enemies? _I have the cure_!"

It seems not to interest Spock. The Vulcan blinks back to his one and sole purpose.

"All—I—want," he drones, "is to _crush_ you."

The hand closes. There is no more friendship. No more possibility.

_No more._

Kirk closes his eyes. What is there to see, but a man he loves who hates him, and anyway his vision is clouding as the blood vessels in his eyes burst. His feet are kicking but without guidance or aim. He lets go of Spock's wrist. What good is it anyway, to fight it, to hold it? Should he die here, at the hands of his best friend, he would be at peace after all these years of heartbreak, of being to blame for death, of pain and evil and loneliness and not being allowed to love whom he loves.

His right hand, falling to his side, brushes against the last dart on his ammunition belt.

Not thinking anymore, because there is no more air or blood flowing to his brain, and he is rapidly losing consciousness or something not quite like it, he allows the trembling hand to detach the dart.

_Spock_.

It is but a miniscule puff of air escaping his lungs, his throat, Spock's grip, and shaped by his lips.

He stabs the dart into Spock's side.

000000000

Kirk crashed to the ground, convulsing with the sudden in-rush of air and blood. He caught a fleeting impression of his pained breathing and the strangely distant drum of his heart, and then gently let it drift away.

"Jim? _Jim_!"

Deadly tired, he opened his eyes. It was Spock, holding him by the shoulders, gently rocking him.

"Jim, stay with me."

_Too late. No more._

But then Spock's eyes filled with horror.

_He knows, he remembers!_

_It will destroy him._

"Spock!" Now he was the one holding the stricken man, shaking him, calling him back to himself. "Don't you leave me again, Spock. Look at me! Say it, I am Vulcan. Say it goddammit!"

"I – am-Vulcan," Spock stammered, flailing through his pain.

"There is no pain!_ Say_ it!"

"There is – no pain."

"Like you mean it!"

"There is no pain!"

_Oh, but there is… _

Kirk let go. It was the last thing he did.


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter 12**

"How is he, Doctor?"

Spock had just awakened from a short and bumpy healing trance and without pausing slid off the biobed in the main Sickbay treatment room.

McCoy had never seen the Vulcan so outwardly distressed. His horror of what had happened still staggered him, but he knew it was nothing compared to what Spock and Jim had gone through.

_Are going through,_ he corrected himself.

He couldn't remember the Spock of the plague planet himself, but Nurse Chapel did. She was standing in the doorway to the room where the Captain lay, ready to defend it. The fear and resolve on her face were painful to see.

Spock had followed his glance and was staring at Christine with such a dark look the Doctor feared for both of them.

"He's stable, Spock, physically," he said quickly, drawing Spock back to himself.

"Can I see him, Doctor?" Spock asked.

He uncharacteristically didn't wait for a reply.

McCoy stepped forward.

"Sorry, Spock," he said firmly, clasping the other's arm. "He needs to rest."

McCoy could see the effort it took Spock to stop his forward motion. The Vulcan drew himself up, nodded, turned on his heel and walked out of Sickbay.

McCoy looked at Christine.

"Oh, Doctor," she pleaded when the door had closed upon the First Officer. "I don't know if they can survive this!"

McCoy set his jaw.

"They're both strong men," he vowed, "_forgiving_ men. But we can't help them, Christine. They can only help each other."

00000000000

The briefing room chime sounded. Jim Kirk, alone at the head of the table, opened his eyes and sat up straight.

"Come."

Seeing Spock enter he stood up and moved to the other side of the room.

"Captain, permission to come in."

"Already granted, Mister Spock."

Spock cleared his throat.

"Permission to speak freely."

"You always have that, Spock."

He was tired, and sounded it, and looked it, no doubt. He had not allowed himself to relax until… until this moment, really. And here it was.

Accepting it took away none of his apprehension, but there was simply no fighting it anymore, because he had no more fight left in him. He had lost it all in Spock's hands. He knew that had his hand not accidentally brushed that dart, he would not have lived, or cared.

He _was_ alive, he lived, but still he did not care. This frightened him.

Spock seemed to be wavering now, looking at him closely, seeing something that worried him over and above what had brought him here.

"What is it, Spock?"

_Too brusque - anything to get those inscrutable eyes off of me._

Spock snapped to attention.

"Captain," he said softly and clearly at a loss, "I have the impression that you are avoiding me."

"We've both been busy cleaning up this mess," Kirk countered with some annoyance. "Your impression is unfounded."

_Go away._

"I beg to differ, Captain. You have been avoiding me even when we should have been working together. And just now, as I entered you moved with the express intention of putting the table between us. Your words are evasive. You're not even _looking at me!_"

They both froze, taken aback by the force with which Spock had spoken.

And Spock realized.

"Jim," he gasped, impulsively taking a step closer, "you are afraid of me. Look, you are trembling."

"Stop!" Kirk yelled, backing away, bumping awkwardly against the wall.

Spock froze. He took in his Captain, the panic naked upon his ashen face, his whole body trembling. This he had done to this man, whom he held dearest of all, this unbreakable man, whom he had broken.

Kirk saw it too, in Spock's eyes, his own reflection. Yes, he was trembling. Yes, he was broken. And a great grief washed over him, for Spock, for himself_. And it made him angry_, and with his anger he tried to grab his fear and subdue it.

"I do not understand," Spock started saying. "You saved me when I realized what I had done. Without your intervention, I do not think I would be _sane_."

"I wasn't thinking," Kirk snapped. He was driving the wedge of anger through his fear. "I hadn't accepted it yet! How can I make you see? You're not like Bones. He knows what he did because we told him. He knows it, but he doesn't _remember_, so it's not a part of him now."

"And I, on the other hand," Spock continued, seizing Kirk's anger, "do remember. What I did is still a part of me, as a memory. So in a way, I am still that person, that monster. But may I offer that it is precisely because I remember everything that I can with all certainty say that _that_ was not me, and _is _not me. Jim?"

Kirk was furious now. From the moment he had woken up in Sickbay after their escape he had known that this moment would come. The moment of truth, when he would come face to face with who he really was. And who did he turn out to be?

_A weak man, a man who rejected his friend._

"I must leave," Spock spoke to his silence.

Now his rage was complete.

"No!" he exploded.

"Jim, how can I stay? When the Captain can no longer trust his First Officer, it endangers the ship, the crew. I will ask for an immediate transfer."

"No-I said _no!_"

_This is the moment. I have feared it all this time, from the moment I first met him. He was _always_ alien. I_ _told myself that it didn't matter. He has fought me, struck me, _killed_ me, and I told myself I understood. But it seems I never did. And it has accumulated, to this. Five years now, and who am I, in the face of this? _

Spock froze when Kirk lunged at him, and embraced him.

Kirk held on for dear life, holding close his fear and loss, to die in its flames, or survive it.

"_Spock_," he whispered. "Spock."


End file.
